blazer, part 1

[mnaz]

(based on a crazy few days back in 2002)

"Hello Rick? It's me."
"From Dark City?"
"Yeah, been a long time."
"Well hell, what's the deal?"
"I wanna move down here."
"Yeah? Any idea where?"
"Was thinking of Vegas."
"Vegas? You kidding?"
"What's your town like?"
"It's still Mayberry here."

So you head south to Rick's town, Lake Havasu City, Arizona, in scorched canyons of lower Colorado River, or what's left of them, where armies of "snowbirds" come to flee the icy Dark North winter. From October to April more hulking motorhomes and trailers litter the desert between Blythe and Phoenix than in Phoenix itself, but no matter. You'll meet up with Rick, a long-lost childhood figure. The one who tried to get you to skip church and slip over to 7-11 for a slurpee, and toss a firecracker in the dumpster. No wait, that was Dwight. But Rick always had a manic streak too, and in the burnt canyons you'll cross paths again. An odd thing.

The town was born a few decades ago beside a reservoir in Arizona's blistering desert when chainsaw tycoon Robert McCulloch purchased the London Bridge and shipped it in numbered pieces and reassembled it by the lake, then built an ersatz "English Village." But the place didn't take off until that music video network brought in their voyeur cameras for "Spring Break" twelve years ago. Near-naked college girls on boats put the town on the map, and now the place attracts a lot of power boats-- the roar of North American heavy-fuel culture. Sleek marine missiles and beefy cabin cruisers. Monster trucks and fat bellies. The sight of fat boats on trailers crossing hundreds of miles of desert is astonishing.

At Lake Havasu you find Rick's stucco house, and he invites you in. We swill beer and discuss local bar legends, and soon his buddy AJ shows up. He has a good beer belly and kitchen mop hair, and is one of those guys who floats above the shitstorm and finds most of it hilarious.

Rick's hair is longer now-- more protection from the sun. He always had a swarthy nature about him, unique among pale Northern denizens. His voice had a boozy rasp even at age ten, and now in his manic moments it practically hisses, parched out by twelve years of desert air and rum. He works at a boat rental store, a good place to meet girls, and though he has lived here awhile he's not too sure about the desert. He wouldn't be here if not for the girls on boats. Why live in a wasteland if not for its art? And the talk turns toward women.

"Those two last night, Big Tits and Long Face."
"Long Face? Like a horse?" you ask.
"She looks like John Kerry."
"Why did you all go in the bathroom?"
"They wanted to see my manliness."
"What did you all do in there?"
"Nothing. They just wanted to see it."
"That was a good party."

It is springtime in Arizona, like dragon exhaust, and suddenly Rick says "Hey you guys, let's go out in the desert." So we migrate to the garage and load up a cooler full of blended whiskey, rum, beer and pop from the booze fridge, and haul it out to the RV-spot, where Rick's new rig sits-- a topless '79 Blazer on stilts with huge knobby tires and a roll-bar fitted with "KC Daylighter" lights covered by yellow plastic. They look like 1970s smiley faces, with "K" and "C" as their demented eyes . . . Have a nice day . . . The rig is painted in desert camouflage except for black primer in back.

"Run out of paint?"
"No, Billy must have run out of beer."
“This thing is an animal. It can climb a fuckin' wall.”
"And it has a roll bar."
“That's comforting,” you lie.
“Traded Bob the welder a case of beer for that, but Billy did most of the work. He put a lot of money into it, rebuilt 401 motor, tranny, everything. And those tires are $250 each.” And Billy made other upgrades too, like a black battering ram bumper and a varnished plywood six hole drink holder.

Rick jumps in and turns the key, and guns the engine to keep it from dying, and black smoke ejects from the tailpipe. And by and by we rattle up a hardscrabble trail from Rick's back yard into saffron hills, past people shooting guns. Rick and AJ fix bourbon-cokes in large plastic cups while you mix a rum and coke. Everything is going well until you smell something burning, and Rick stops to check under the Blazer and notices transmission fluid dripping on the exhaust.

"No big deal, we aren't going that far.”
Two turns farther Rick jams the brakes and AJ smacks his head on the roll bar.
“My God, look at the size of that rock up ahead!” he yells.
“We need refreshment before tackling that one.”
“Rock? What rock?” you inquire.
"Must be a rock around here some place."
Indeed. "Rock! Rock!"
You sample more of your drink.

Several "rocks" later, we approach an abandoned car, one of those gutless econo-box relics from bygone era, and Rick immediately smashes into it, then jumps out to check the results. The impact buckles the Blazer's bumper and pushes in its grill, but Rick is unfazed.
"Trail maintenance . . . That car was a road hazard."
"Rock! Rock!"

A few "rocks" after that we come to an alcove under a steep cliff, maybe sixty feet high. Here the road climbs steeply up a crude notch in the cliff, covered with small boulders, but Rick attacks without hesitation. The notch narrows and a drop-off threatens. The Blazer shudders and pitches, and small boulders fly . . . First rule of off-roading: when in doubt, keep right foot firmly planted on the gas. The Blazer lurches onto a side recess and Rick brakes. That crude notch ahead climbs even more steeply. You doubt if it's five feet wide.
"Oh no you don't."

Meanwhile AJ finds humor in it-- "Hey Rick, why didn't you take that road over there? Heehee.” He points to another road across the alcove. We blew past it, due to Rick's right foot. He nurses the Blazer back down the cliff and across the alcove, but up close the other trail is no better than the first one.

Rick attacks again, and the assault vehicle convulses more wildly this time, and the path again necks down. Dramatically. The transmission slips, sending the engine howling, but we eke out the first crest . . . And now you see that this trail hooks up with the first one. That same precarious, steep ledge, and that look in Rick's eye. Think quickly . . . "I saw another road back there; I'll go check it out." And as you clamber out and start hiking down you hear Rick and AJ size up their chances.

“AJ, how's the clearance on your side?”
“Well, just below me there's like, you know, um . . . air. Does that help?”
“Come on man, we can make it.”

You're halfway down the path when you see the Blazer backing. Rick must have blinked. So you jog a little faster, and hope they won't see you jogging.
"Another road, you say?"
"Back that way."
"Liar."

We careen and contort down the trail, only to face Rick's econo-box nemesis. But this time he sets the Blazer square and drives the car a good twenty feet, and locks bumper to frame in so doing. But no problem. Four hundred one screaming, fuming cubic inches break us loose, though it takes a minute to get the dry transmission in gear. And Rick jumps out again . . . "Not a scratch! See, that's it! You gotta hit it head-on!" . . . And by now a mixture of burnt tranny fumes and booze renders the scene oddly sensible, but the booze seems superfluous. You could simply be crocked on the concussion of it all.